Four Weeks
by Occurrence
Summary: Sofia tries to mess with Sara and Gil's relationship while he is on sabatical, but finds herself falling for the wrong CSI. Femslash
1. Chapter 1

I'm not sure what keyed me into Gil and Sara

Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, just for fun. Includes course language and mature situations. Applies to all chapters.

I'm not sure what keyed me into Gil and Sara. There wasn't anything obvious; no touching, no slip about their familiarity with each other's homes. It was just one too many long looks. Or the convenience of picking up lunch for the other when I know it was not requested. Since when did Gil cue in to another person so completely that he knew her preferred lunch order? God, the man could never remember whether I liked red or white wine with dinner. But he would smile when he handed her a sandwich, and watch her through the glass when she worked in the lab across from his office. He never seemed to get that he could be seen through the same glass.

I would walk into his line of sight deliberately, reporting on some trivial detail from a case, or to question him when I knew the answer. Just to see that look I knew wasn't meant for me anymore. It was never meant for me, if I'm honest. Gil played with me because he knew my value to the lab, and he knew he could keep me here when every instinct told me to flee Las Vegas. Twice. And so now I try to catch that affection in his eye for a moment before he comes back to the task at hand. Fortunately, Gil is not known for being a little absent minded without reason, and for now, it is enough. Just to see that warms me. But I know it won't be enough for long.

I keep thinking I should let someone know. Let it slip in the break room. Hell, tell Ecklie. Let him sort it out. I suspect, no, I know there are regulations prohibiting just such behavior. But telling Ecklie, or anyone, would bring it back around on Gil as much as it would on her. I'm not ready to do that to him. I am mad as hell at him, but I still hope maybe, maybe someday he'll see me again.

It is pathetic, I know. More so because after watching him watch her for a few weeks, I started to doubt myself. Maybe what I thought I saw was not real, maybe the looks were just Gil being Grissom. So I did something extraordinarily stupid. I followed him home one night. I just wanted to wait and see her arrive at his place after shift. I thought I would leave then, just so I knew for sure. But as I sat there in front of his apartment building I knew it was not going to be enough for me to just know. As I sat there watching the lights go off in his living room and come on in his bedroom, I knew exactly what he was doing to her. The way his introspective gaze would turn on her as she stripped. The way his hands traced details on her skin that no one had taken the time to notice before. And that beard; the fat lady by the pool was right; Gil certainly had everything he needed to please a woman. I knew I needed to try to get him back. I needed him.


	2. Chapter 2

I kept waiting for the right time, and now I guess I missed it. I was as surprised as anyone that Gil was taking a leave. Ecklie should have told me; that asshole owes me a couple favors by now. But when Stokes came into the break room bumbling on about Grissom saying he would be back, but Nick wasn't sure, I just froze. I couldn't admit I had no idea what he was talking about and ask the Boy Scout for more information. Stokes gets on my last nerve most nights with his good old boy drawl. For all his gentleman ways, I could still see him knocking his wife or girlfriend around behind closed doors. Probably just my own bias, but I'm rarely wrong when it comes to batterers. So I had to seek out Jim to hear this tale about Walden Pond/ bug life cycles or whatever. It seemed too absurd; it had to be an excuse for Gil to just disappear. But then, Jim said not to worry about it, and Catherine is still running around on some case. I assume if this were the real exit, they would be making a bigger fuss about it. I have to trust they know him better than anyone.

Except Sara perhaps.

I have no intention of throwing myself at Gil before he leaves; make some crazy declaration of whatever. I am not the heroine of some paperback romance novel; lost without the Fabio-esqe man. There isn't time now for me to say so, anyway. Even if I had wanted a slightly more personal good-bye, it is too late; his cab is out front. I don't know what I am doing shadowing him as he gathers his things. I don't know what I would say, really, if I caught up with him. But I am just beyond the range where he would be aware of me and I see him stop at the locker room. He turns and glances around the halls as if looking for someone and I duck quickly into the nearest lab, thankfully empty. I see his back in the doorway, and then he's heading out again.

I meant to follow him, but by the time I start to move he is already through the doors and I can't come up with a reason to accidentally run into him in the loading area in front of the building. If I had known earlier he was leaving, I could have timed it so I would finish shift as he was heading out. Maybe offered him a lift to the airport, so I could have a little more time with him. Not that he was likely to accept such an offer from me.

Inside the darkened lab I lean against the doorframe, kicking myself for not moving quicker. Not just now, today, but these past few weeks. I've known what I've wanted and I just assumed he'd be here when I figured it all out. Eventually I shake myself out of it and I move towards the locker room myself. There is certainly work to be finished, my desk is buried in paperwork as usual, but I am done for today, and I know it. I feel tired suddenly, and all the little aches I usually ignore are refusing to be sublimated by conscious will. I figure I'll shower at home, wash that man out right out of my hair. Smirking, I hum a few bars as I enter the locker room, stopping quickly.

I hadn't thought about why Gil would pause in the doorway of the locker room, but of course there's the answer. Sara Sidle.

I can't tell what she is searching for in her locker, but I see her tilt her head just enough to identify me out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she is not looking for anything, maybe she is just trying to pull herself together. What did Gil say to her? I love you and see you in four weeks? I love you; sorry I'm not coming back? Maybe they don't say such things to each other. Maybe love is too intangible; maybe they have created some quantifiable measure of how they feel for each other. When you are away and I think of you, it causes a certain amount of dopamine to enter my system, producing a small uplift in my mood. Geek love talk.

I move past her, nodding in acknowledgement, towards my own locker. She's still facing her own, though her hands have stilled and I can hear her carefully measured breaths. It is funny; in the past few weeks I have thought a great deal about Gil and Sara, but really all I have done is consider him. His reasons, his actions, his feelings. Clearly she feels strongly about him, but then everyone has known that since she arrived in Vegas from what Jim says. But I never really considered what it must be like for her to finally be with him. What it must feel like to carry a torch for someone for so long and then to have him finally respond. And then what it must feel like for him to leave for a month. Well, that must be difficult to bear. That I can work with.

I have been trying to figure out to turn Gil away from Sara, but maybe I should try the reverse. Honestly, it is not like I have another option at this point with Gil half a continent away. But Sara is here, and alone, as am I. If I can turn her away from Gil, if he hasn't already done that himself by disappearing for a month, maybe she won't be as eager to have him back.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm not sure what I meant to do, how I thought I would turn Sara against Gil. Maybe poison her mind with stories of unfaithful men and abandoned women. Tell her tales about Gil and me that would make her question his feelings for her, make it seem that their relationship was just another fling for him. Sitting in the locker room with Sara the day he left, I thought it would be that simple. Invite her out for a couple of beers, or coffee, whatever. I knew about the DUI that got swept under the rug, but she doesn't strike me as an alcoholic. I'm a detective, there are plenty of alcoholics around me on the force, and she isn't one of them. She just got caught after making a poor decision. God knows where I'd be if half the stupid shit I did caught up with me. Just tell her some stories, use the sisterhood to tweak her opinion of him, just a little. At most I thought I would have to make up a bastard boyfriend to lament about. I didn't expect I would go to these lengths.

The thought that I could influence Sara is sudden, and as I stand there cleaning soiled clothes out of my locker it seems so simple. When I glance at her she seems to have pulled it together and is turning to leave.

"You want to grab some breakfast?" I blurt at her back. She turns to look at me, and I can see her mentally gathering her excuses, imaginary appointments or whatever, so I rush through the rest, hoping to hold her attention just a little bit longer.

"Come on, let's grab some breakfast or a beer or something. I'm beat, but I'm not ready to go home yet. My ex just finished clearing his stuff out of my place, and I haven't had a chance to rearrange anything. It is a long story." I laugh when I see the deer in the headlights look rush across her face briefly before her mask falls again. "Don't worry I won't make you listen to that tale this morning. Really. I just don't want to go back there quite yet. I not ready to be there alone yet." And the odd thing is, I think I mean that last part, though I'm not sure whom I'm missing.

I can't read her, I never could really, but I can see her thinking. She seems to have picked up that Grissom introspective look, and it is disconcerting to see. But something I said must have made an impression, because she starts nodding before she says anything.

"Yeah, OK. I could use some food." I'm already steering her out the door; I don't want her changing her mind. "Wait, where are we going, I should check on some stuff first."

"No, we should get out of here. Come on, it can wait. I know you," I meet her eyes, my left hand on her elbow, balancing dirty laundry and my purse with the other, "You packed up everything essential and turned in any urgent paper work already and if I let you back into the labs, you won't come back out until you max out you overtime and Gil, or Ecklie I mean, drags you out." Damn, don't screw this up already, girl, I say to myself. I could feel her stiffen at just the mention of his name. So we won't be talking about Gil today. I have time, four weeks in fact. "Look I'll drive; I can drop you back at your car later. Just easier to take one car." And that way you can't slip off.

Sara is uncharacteristically quiet as we sign out and drive. Perhaps it is just that I only notice her when she is getting in someone's face, and this silence is completely normal for her. Then again, I'm not chatty this morning either. I turn on the music when we get in my SUV and we fall into an easy pattern of humming along with popular music neither of us have the time to really listen to. I imagine she likes older music; folk music, maybe, her parents were hippies from what Stokes said. Unless she also likes Ani Difranco, I'm lost there. I could see her liking jazz or the blues, maybe unwinding while reading forensic journals on the easy chair in Gil's living room, that little corner he turned into a library. Waiting for him to finish up and, damn. I really don't want to think of the two of them together.

"Is Kelly's OK? I know they have eggs and stuff," I ask, turning the music up to distract myself and adjusting the heat. Sara looks at me and just nods before turning back to the window. At least she isn't opposed to going to a bar. Kelly's is just your typical neighborhood dive bar. For out of towners, Vegas is divided into the Strip and off-the-Strip, and this bar is definitely in the latter category. I like it because it is anonymous without being rough. The wait staff turns over often, but the bartender remembers me, so it all works out.

I pull into the parking lot, stashing anything that identifies me as law enforcement, and exit into the pale morning light. Even in Vegas the winter light is different, though you have to be a local to notice. The bar is unevenly lit, and I almost step on the drunk slouching over the table nearest the door. Nothing like being plastered before 9 AM I suppose. Sara just looks annoyed as she scoots around him, but he reminds me of my uncle, and I shake him on my way past, trying to wake him before the waitress kicks him out.

I steer her towards my favorite booth in the back, with my hand against the small of her back. I can feel how stiff she is and I'm amazed she agreed to come out with me at all. I suspect she really doesn't like me, though she is professional about it most of the time. It probably doesn't help that she is not on my list of favorite people either. Particularly not since the shooting last fall. I knew I shouldn't have come to Grissom while he was investigating, but I was so lost and so scared. She didn't need to be so cold to me, make me feel worse than I already did. I feel that old anger start to rise, and struggle to let it go. It is done, and long past. It won't help me now.

She slips into the cracked vinyl booth with her back to the door, and as I swing into the bench across from her I catch her staring at me. I assume she is trying to figure out why I brought her here; I wish I knew what to tell her. The waitress is efficient; she's at the table even before we settle in, and I order a light beer to match Sara, though I would rather have whiskey or bourbon. We stare at our menus while we wait for our drinks, and even after we order, we sit in relative silence, just the occasional patter about the food, the décor. We seem to be avoiding anything work related, and as I start in on my second beer, it just doesn't have the kick that liquor has, we fall completely silent.

She is looking over my shoulder, staring blankly into middle distance and I know what she sees is not here, though I can't tell what it is. Maybe Gil, maybe some case she has been working on. Her distraction allows me to study her more closely than usual, the highlights in her hair, her eyes, the way her folded hands don't seem to settle on the table but shift constantly. She is cute, and I can see why he is attracted to her. I suspect once she relaxes she is surprisingly beautiful; the gap-toothed smile I've glimpsed but never really seen tempering the sharp features. She probably lights up a room in her after glow, and I wonder if those legs are as perfect out of blue jeans.

But I am getting off track; the idea was to make Gil look like a bad guy for picking up and leaving her. Even if it is only for four weeks, you never know what might happen. Half the lab is betting he doesn't come back at all, but I know he'll come back for her. I'm not sure she is as certain as I am. She is clearly worried about something, and I know it is not me or my intentions. Though I'm not so sure of my intentions now.

I have always thought of her as cold, a bitch if I am being crude, but she looks so unsure now, even a little bit scared, and my latent feminism starts to surface. I can't screw her over just to get a guy. Not even for him can I mess with the sisterhood. We are both playing in a man's world, men out number women 2 to 1 in her department and 3 to 1 in mine, and this is one of the better labs as far as equality. With those kinds of odds, I can certainly find another guy. Or a girl for that matter; they seem to be a disproportionate number of lesbians on days and swing.

Maybe it is just the beer, or maybe seeing her vulnerable, even just a little, is bringing out my protective side, but by the time the food and my third Bud Light arrive, I am feeling pretty mellow. I'm OK with her and Gil, I really am. At least I will be. It is time to move on, maybe get assigned to days for a while so I don't have to see the two of them together, but it will work out. The arrival of the waitress with our meals seems to have shaken her out of whatever reverie she was in, and as we set to eating, I'm feeling more relaxed and I start talking about cases I'm working on and bitching about Ecklie, which is the favorite past time of most of the lab. She's pretty quiet, but the haunted look has left her, and gradually she responds in something more than single word answers. We finish breakfast with the usual office chatter, though I'm careful to avoid mentioning Gil. Though now it is because I don't want to bring up anything painful. At some point over runny eggs I seem to have become a considerate person again.

I'm half way through a very funny story about an idiot suspect when I realize she has disengaged again. I keep talking, figuring she'll jump back into the conversation at some point. I pause when the waitress comes by to clear the plates, habit to protect confidentiality, though I doubt it matters here, and then Sara starts talking as soon as she is gone.

"You know we have been here for about an hour and we've made meaningless conversation about work and the guys, and you haven't mentioned the one topic that everyone at the lab was going on about today. So, I'm trying to figure out why you haven't mentioned Grissom taking a leave of absence. Clearly you know about it, and so I am wondering why you haven't at least acknowledged it."

I'm pretty sure I resemble a fish out of water at this point, my mouth flapping while I try to find an answer to that. I can't think of anything to say, and I start to blush as she continues.

"In fact, you have only mentioned Gris once since we left the locker room, which in itself is kind of odd given how _fond_ you are of him."

Something in the way she says it makes my blood pressure start to rise, and I can't seem to find any of the Zen-like calm I had just a few minutes ago. I am fond of Gil, and of course she knows it, most of the lab does, but it just irks me to hear her mock it.

"So, what's the story, Curtis? Do you think you know something I don't; something about Grissom's trip that you feel would be inappropriate to share? Please, do tell."

She is staring at me intensely, and I can't tell if she is taunting me, just trying to get a rise or if she really thinks I know something. I can't figure out what game she is playing, but I'm done. And I'm out of patience.

"Look, I was trying to be nice, to you, and that's it." She clearly doesn't believe me, and why should she; it is not really the truth. "OK, at first I was trying to mess with you, but I got to thinking that if it was my lover leaving for four weeks without me, I would probably feel like crap. Look, I felt sorry for you, all right. Though I'm not sure why I bothered." If the situation was salvageable before, it certainly isn't now. She went from suspicious to surprised to pissed as hell in ten seconds. I was sure she knew that I knew about the two of them, but she seems genuinely surprised. So I go for the kill, just twist the knife a little more.

"God knows if my lover took off suddenly, just tried to sneak away, I would be upset. I mean, Gil must have known about this class for months, but he didn't tell you until recently, did he? If I were in your position, I would want a little sympathy, or at least someone to buy me a few beers and to listen while I bitch about it. I'm sorry your boyfriend is gone and I'm really sorry I dragged you out to breakfast." I start to root around for some money to cover the tab, but she beats me to it and is up and out of the bench before me. She leans over and whispers, though there isn't anyone else in earshot.

"I don't need your fucking pity. And you don't need to worry about me offering sympathy, there is no chance of you getting anywhere with Gris."

She pulls away and heads for the door of the bar, though I'm not sure where she thinks she is going; I drove. I can't tell whether my head is reeling more from the asinine come back she just threw or from the way her scent lingers in my nose for a few moments, reminding me of sex and Gil's apartment, but not necessarily from the same memory. Which is confusing, but in another moment, I'm more pissed than anything else, and I get up to follow her.

Normally, I'm not into public confrontations. I don't need anyone seeing me airing my dirty laundry. But I am so pissed at Sara that I'm willing to risk being seen arguing in the parking lot of a dive bar. The sunlight makes me wince after the cave like lighting in Kelly's, and Sara is standing there looking puzzled; apparently she forgot her car wasn't here. I take the opportunity to grab her by the shoulder and spin her around. It is not entirely my fault that she falls back against the side of my SUV, but I get in close to make sure she stays there.

"You are a fucking nutcase, you know that right? I am not so pathetic as to pine after some guy who moved on quite a while ago." So that's not entirely true, but I'm on a roll. "We are going to have to keep working together, because I'm _rather fond _of my job, and I don't see you leaving the lab unless it is to follow Gil some where. So when you get your head out of your ass, let me know. In the meantime, I plan on ignoring you whenever possible. All right?" Over the course of my rant I continued to press Sara's back against the truck, and somehow my leg had slid between hers. I don't realize until I stop to catch my breath that I had maneuvered us much closer than we really need to be, and that I'm enjoying having her in that position. And she looks rather startled to be there, more of that deer in the headlights look I had seen earlier, but this time from a more intimate distance. Fuck it all.

So I kiss her, which I realize runs contrary to my previous statements about ignoring her, but she is so close and her lips are there and she smells like sex. Kind of that little bit after part, before you get out of bed to wash up, and I try really hard not to think about when she and Gil were together last as I capture her lips. This time when I press my thigh between her legs, I do it intentionally, and I have to press up to find contact with her center. I can feel her respond, feel her breath hitch against my lips as I kiss her again and then don't stop. I feel her hands on my shoulders, and I don't know if she intends to push me away, but she is starting to kiss me back and I have no intention of stopping. So I grab her wrists, which seem more delicate than my own and pull them around her back, forcing her body to arch into mine. I swear I can feel her nipples through both our shirts.

I'm not sure where this is coming from or how I ended pinning Sara against my own truck, though I'm guessing the beer probably helped. But I'm about ready to fuck her in the parking lot when she starts to whimper around my lips. I think perhaps she is trying to tell me to stop; I kind of hope one of us will come to our senses, and I'm pretty sure it will not be me. Instead she slides her leg between mine until I stumble for balance and whispers in my ear.

"Not here."


	4. Chapter 4

I wish I could say I understood what I am doing with Sara, why I am driving us to my apartment to, I rpesume, get laid

I wish I could say I understood what I am doing with Sara, why I am driving us to my apartment to, I presume, get laid. But this is making less sense to me the farther we get from the bar. Fortunately, I don't live too far away.

She is huddled against the door, the window cracked to let in a little air, which is stirring her hair, and I want to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. I'm afraid to take my hands off the wheel, one because I am fairly buzzed and need to pay attention, and two, because I'm not sure I could stop at just touching her hair. She is so quiet, and the way she has turned away from me, virtually ignoring me, I can hardly believe this is the same woman who begged me to take her home. I can still taste her chap stick when I lick my lips, though, so it must be.

Maybe begged is not the correct word. 'Not here' isn't exactly poetry, but from her I'll take it. It took me a couple seconds to grasp her meaning, and then I practically dragged her around the SUV, remote unlocking it, so I could help her into the vehicle in one smooth motion. And by helping, I mean shoving her, more or less. I'm not fond of poetry myself.

I didn't bother asking where she wanted to go, I figured my place was close, and I didn't want to give her an opportunity to change her mind. Like a lot of the guys I know, once I get wound up, I really need that release. Right now I can feel my clit rub against my panties every time I shift in the driver seat, and there is no way I want to take care of that alone. I find a spot in front of my building vacant, which is unusual, and the elevator works today, also fortunate. I figure these are good signs; something must be blessing this. Sara doesn't say anything, just looks around, probably taking it all in like she does during a first walk through of a crime scene. I can't think of anything to say to her that seems important enough to share. I could describe the amenities of my building, or share part of my internal monologue, but I suspect it would just be background noise to her. So we ride the elevator to the fifth floor in silence.

We walk down the hallway to my apartment, Sara a couple steps behind me, and it occurs to me that I don't think she has even looked at me since we left the parking lot. I didn't expect her to act like a teenager on a first date; looking at me all moony, wondering if we would kiss before I dropped her home. But some acknowledgement would be nice. I'd worry about whether I was being too forceful with her, but she is following me on her own; I haven't even touched her.

I fumble with the lock for a minute, and when I get it open, I hold my breath because I can't remember if I cleaned recently or not. I'm lucky again; I must have tidied up in the last couple of days. There is no obvious mess, just odds and ends lying around. It is a pretty standard one-bedroom apartment; living room separated from kitchen by bar style counter, bedroom and bath off to the right as you enter. I have collected simple, classic furniture; neutral colored couch and love seat surround dark stain wood coffee table, with several unfinished pine bookshelves along the wall. It could be anyone's living room, which is what I want. Sometimes I dream I'll walk away from all of this, my whole life, and someone else will just move in and pick it up. Sometimes I not sure anyone will notice if I do.

I take a few steps into the room and start to turn to Sara; I can feel her behind me in the room. Before I get all of the way around, I feel her hand on my left bicep, pulling me until I am backed against the closed door. I hit the door hard, and before I can catch my breath, she is kissing me, biting at my lips. I figured I would be the instigator, but she has one hand on the back of neck, tilting my face up towards her, and the other on my shoulder, holding me in place. I close my eyes, enjoying the taste of her, her lips on mine. She moves down to my neck, kissing and sucking along the contours she finds there. When she starts to nip the skin, I hiss in mild pain and great pleasure, though I really don't want marks to explain away at work tonight.

"No, wait, wait, I…"

I don't get too far with objecting, though, before her lips are back on mine, smothering whatever protest I was making. As her hand leaves my shoulder to grasp my breast, tweaking the hard nipple she finds by touch alone, I can't remember what I was objecting to anyway.

I groan against her lips as she twists just a little bit harder. Then her lips are gone, and I open my eyes and find myself staring at the crown of dark hair as she bites the skin above my collarbone. Somewhere in the last few minutes, I lost track of one of her hands, and now I notice that my shirt is completely unbuttoned. I pull forward enough to let my shirt slip from my shoulders as she pushes it down my arms, and then I feel her hands between my back and the door. I can't help shivering as her cold fingers fumble with my bra clasps, though that may be a result of her sucking at the soft skin on the top of my breast.

Her hands slide down my back to my hips; which is fortunate since her lips have moved to my exposed nipples, and I feel my knees start to buckle as she runs her tongue over them. I move to draw her head closer to my chest, but find myself lightly manacled by the bra straps tangled around my arms. I shrug the bra off and reach for Sara's head with one hand, tangling my fingers in her hair and drawing her closer. With the other, I reach across her back for the tail of her shirt, thinking to pull it up and over her head. Then I hear, more than feel I hear, the sound of my belt opening and Sara fumbling with my trousers. My hand stills on her back, just lightly stroking her silk shirt. She has some trouble with the clasp on my pants, but she finally opens them enough to slide her hand into my panties. She moves back up to kiss me as she drives two fingers into my pussy.

I hadn't thought too much about what sex with her would be like; unlike Gil, she is not someone I really considered for a partner, never fantasized about. If you had asked me on the ride to my place from the bar, I would have thought I would have been in charge, guiding her through. If I had thought about it, I would have assumed sex with Sara would be slow; a long build up, a great tease, and then a satisfying but not mind blowing climax. I would have been wrong.

When she starts pumping her fingers in and out of me, I find it hard to breath, and I'm whimpering against her lips. It is a pitiful sound, not at all like me, but the constriction caused by my pants causes her palm to grind against my clit every time she thrusts into me, and I can't help myself. My head falls back against the door, too hard, I'll have a headache later, and her head drops to my shoulder. I pant at the ceiling, and when she adds a third finger, my knees finally do give out. She's quick to grab my hip and steady me, but in the split second before she does, my weight is almost entirely supported by her hand in my groin, and it ratchets me up a few more notches. Once I'm sure I won't fall, I relax again and she starts pumping away. I'm so close, and I draw a deep breath and hold it as long as I can. It doesn't take me more than a couple handfuls of seconds after that to come, shaking in her grasp as she continues to thrust as deep into me as our position will allow. I grit my teeth, fighting my body's instinct to draw in air. I don't want this to end. But as I start to see spots floating in mid distance and it all becomes too intense, I swallow a shallow breath, and then another. I had thought for a moment that I might break into a thousand pieces that would scatter in the breeze; for a moment I am nothing and I want to stay there in the ether.

A few more shattered breaths bring me back, and I am again Sofia Curtis, slumped against my apartment door, being held upright by a woman I can barely tolerate most days. She won't look at me; doesn't bother checking how I am. In a way I am grateful that I don't have to share this part of myself with her; her lips are still buried against the hollow between my neck and shoulder blade. She withdraws her hand from my pants, but all my nerve endings there still tingle, like a phantom hand has taken her place. I shudder again and try to regroup. When I'm sure my legs will support me I pull myself upright from the slumped position against the door. Before I get any farther than standing under my own steam, Sara grabs my shoulders and spins us around so it is her back against the door.

I start to stumble, and she catches me, only to shove me down to the floor. I fall to my knees, catching one hand against the door and the other on her hip, and hope like hell I won't have reason to shower in the locker room at work for the next few days; I don't want to explain away bruised knees. I look up from my position on the floor to curse her for pushing me, but I get distracted by the sight of her hands fumbling with her own jeans. She is entirely focused on getting the belt open, and I take the chance to watch her pout. I'm not sure I've ever had a chance to study her so unabashedly, and even on my knees on the hard wood floor, I'm grateful for the opportunity. She is stunning in her frustration. I move to help her, but she bats my hand out of her way before I get there. I sit back on my heels since this is clearly where she wants me and wait.

She gets the buttons undone on her jeans and kicks her shoes off in two awkward motions, scuffing the back of her heels as she pushes them away. Her jeans and panties follow in one motion, her dark hair falling over my head as she reaches down to pull them off. I think I smell jasmine in her hair, though I suspect it is my imagination; she wouldn't risk dulling her sense of smell with perfume at work. And then it is gone, and I get a quick look at her bare from the waist down, the tails of her shirt trailing across her pelvic bone as she grabs the back of my head and pulls me towards her center.

Just to clarify, it is not that I have never been with a woman; after all, there is a time and place for everything, and it is called college. Then there was the relationship with Carolyn when we were working towards our additional accreditation before we joined our respective labs. But it was always more of an afterthought; no attractive men around, well, OK. Why not a woman? And in each case it was really more fooling around than actual sex. What I'm saying is, while I'm not completely innocent, I rarely, if ever, have found myself on my knees going down on another woman.

And that is where I am now. I'm staring at Sara's pussy, wondering if I'm really up for this. I realize I started this, but I didn't really think this through. Now I'm here, and her fingers are tightening in my hair, pulling none too delicately. I feel my eyes start to tear up from the sharp tug and I know blond hairs will be tangled around her fingers when she pulls them away. When in Rome, as they say. I flick my tongue out, just barely brushing her clit, and she jerks at the contact and then again as my lips connect with more skin. I run the fingers of one hand up the inside of her thigh, lightly trailing the muscle tone I find there. I wonder if she is ticklish as she squirms beneath my hand or if it is just that I'm better at going down on a woman than I had thought.

She pulls me even tighter against her if that is possible and keeps me there, and I stop thinking, stop analyzing the moment. For whatever time it takes her to come, I am just _in _that moment. When she climaxes she digs her nails into the back of my skull and it is the first time in several minutes that I have thought of anything but moving my tongue and lips over her. She cries out as she comes, an almost painful sound. Just one brief, wordless sound, a strangled noise she couldn't quite bite back.

She releases my head, but I'm still kneeling there in front of her, trying to catch my breath. I can hear her draw a few shaky breaths herself, but she seems to pull it together quickly. In fact I'm still staring at the floor, wondering what to do next, when Sara straightens and pushes past me; knocking me back on my heels. I turn to see her gathering her slacks and panties, getting a nice view of her ass before she sits down on my couch to pull them on. I can't believe she is not on the floor next to me, rubber knees and panting breath. But she has her pants buttoned before I think to speak.

"Where are you going?" I know it sounds ridiculous as soon as it leaves my mouth, but it is out there. Sara doesn't even bother to respond verbally; she just looks up beneath the hair hanging over her face as she pulls on her shoes and I think I see her shake her head in a negative response. What she is telling me no about, I can't figure.

And before I can ask her anything else, she is opening the door to my apartment and I shuffle back, on my knees still, to get out of the way. She doesn't even look down at me again as she lets herself out and closes the door.


	5. Chapter 5

After Sara left I sat on the floor for a while trying to figure out what the hell just happened

After Sara left, I sat on the floor for a while trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I thought this was about Grissom, I think it may still be about Gil, but now there is something else going on. It is the last part I just can't figure.

I don't know how long I spent in front of the door of my apartment, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. I just curled my arms around myself, trying to hold it all in. Every once in a while I would shudder, remembering her long fingers deep inside my cunt, her coarse pubic hair tickling my nostrils.

When I did get up, I moved kind of sluggishly. I kept looking around my apartment and something seemed off, but I couldn't quite place it. I curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and flicked on the TV, just trying not to think. Maybe if I stopped focusing on it, the sense of unease would clarify into something concrete. Concrete I can work with.

I was nodding off during some Nature or Discovery program when my mind finally landed on what had been bothering me. I thought what had happened with Sara was about too many beers coupled with too long a time alone. Or that in some perverse way I might be sticking it to Gil. And what struck me was that when I was with her, I wasn't thinking about him, it wasn't about him at that point. It was just about her, and the way she smelled and the way her skin felt and how her fingers twisted in my hair as she came. I understand that, at some point, sex is simply about the physical act, at some point it is just a matter of friction. But this morning, I was into _her_ before I got to that point. From the time she got in my SUV at the diner, it was just about her.

I've been dodging Sara for the past two days at work; I think we've spoken twice, and it was awkward both times. Well, awkward for me, anyway. She seemed the detached professional I am used to seeing. Every time I caught a glimpse of her I swear I could feel my face flush. Jim even asked me if I was feeling all right as I looked like I was running a fever. I had no idea how to excuse away my behavior and I can only hope he doesn't put the pieces together. While Brass and I are pretty friendly, I have no doubt he would side with Gil over me if it came down to it.

And that's the thing that is really driving me to distraction; what is this coming down to? What the hell am I doing, thinking about Sara like this? I've slept poorly since it happened, and I dreamt of her when I did sleep. While I am inclined to just say I haven't gotten laid enough recently, I can't stop thinking about her. I need to try for some resolution, some closure. But short of transferring out of the state, I haven't come up with anything yet. Something will have to give soon, because I don't think I can keep avoiding her, and I don't want any more dreams.

For all the fretting I've been doing the past week, you would think I would have a more coherent plan. But when I saw Sara in the locker room after bringing in a difficult suspect, I just figured, what the hell. I don't know what I am going to say, but I can't keep ducking around corners when I hear her voice. I got stuck in a painful conversation with Hodges earlier when I tried to hide in his lab. Of course all conversations with him are painful, but this one more so since I wouldn't have been having it at all if I wasn't being such a wuss about facing Sara.

I have already checked my gun in to lock-up for the day, but I still have on my belt laden with the kind of shit only beat cops carry regularly. I knew this suspect was going to be a pain in the ass, and sometimes it helps to look the way the majority of the population expects police to look. Especially when the detective is a slight, blond female, it can help to have a belt with cuffs and pepper spray visible. I feel like a spaghetti western gunslinger when I dress like this, like I have double holsters riding low on my hips. I walk different, carry my weight a little different to compensate, it makes me a little cocky. So when I see Sara in the locker room, her back towards me, I decide to resolve this business right now. She doesn't seem to hear me and I stop just inside the doorway to study her; I watch how her shoulder blades shift under the thin tank top she has stripped to, the way her biceps move and flex as she laces her boot propped up on the bench facing away from the door. As she leans over the bench to grab her other boot, I get a quick glimpse of pale blue panties riding above the waist of her dark slacks. Whatever thought I had of a polite, or not so polite, conversation with her is gone from my head, and all I can think about is the taste and feel and sound of her as she was a few mornings ago in my apartment. I'm reduced to a very primal state, and if I tried to speak now I would probably just grunt and drag her back to my cave. Fortunately she does the talking instead.

"In or out, Detective Curtis, but stop hovering in the doorway, staring at me." I don't know how she knows it is me; she is still facing away from me. I take a step forward without thinking and utter something truly brilliant.

"Um, what?" She half turns and smirks at me over her shoulder.

"Close the door, use the wedge to secure it closed, and then come over here." She is speaking to me like I'm a slow child, and I am quickly losing the swagger I came in with. I try to keep up the bravado and kick the door wedge out to close it, but I kick a little too hard and send it flying down the next row of lockers. I can hear her laughing softly at me as I scramble over a bench to retrieve it. By the time I get back around, the door has swung shut and I place the plastic wedge very carefully into the crack and kick it. My face is flushed again, but now it is because I am pissed as hell. I turn to face her and she has swiveled around and is straddling the bench looking me up and down. She raises an eyebrow at my belt and boots and draws one long leg up on the bench, wrapping both arms around it, and my gaze just follows the crease line of her slacks up, and up. By the time I get to her face she is laughing again, and I know I look the fool with my mouth slightly parted. I can't decide which is driving me more at this point, my anger or my desire. Maybe for us there is so little difference it is an irrelevant question.

"Were you out playing with the big boys? Thought you had to look all tough, with your shit kicking boots and Bowie belt?" She is smirking at me again, and she must know what she is doing to me. How her taunting is driving me a little crazy. We've been down this path before, after the shoot out. But she just keeps pushing, and I can't stop looking at her eyes.

"Does it really change anything? Those guys are still going to put you out of harm's way if they can, and no amount of hardware is going to help you take down a 300-pound suspect if he decided to run through you. So who do you think you are fooling?"

I'm moving before she stops talking, and her face registers surprise at how quickly I am on top of her, pushing her down onto the bench. I'm half kneeling on the bench, above her, close enough that all she can see is my face. I kiss her, forcing my tongue between her teeth, and drive my knee into her crotch. She squirms beneath me, and I almost lose my balance. She reaches up to catch me, and I slap the handcuffs on her left wrist. She pulls away from me, breaking the kiss, and I grab her other wrist and drag them both under the bench to secure her. She never saw me take them off my belt, and she looks rather pissed that I got her in this position. And it is a wonderful position for her.

She is lying on her back, her long legs hanging over each side of the bench, and her hands are cuffed underneath the bench beneath the small of her back, effectively keeping her from getting up. She can move, but not much, and as I kneel next to her to double lock the cuffs and check the fit, I get a nice view of her breasts rising and falling. The position is awkward, but not painful for her, though I don't plan on leaving her here for long. I straddle the bench just below her, and scoot up until I am pressed flush against her pelvis, lifting her thighs over my own. I pull the tank top out of her pants, and run my fingers up her stomach. She gasps at my cold fingers, and I look up at her face to gauge how far I can take this. Her eyes are closed, but she hasn't said stop, and as I start to move my hands under her bra, I feel her wrap one leg up on the bench behind me, the boot in the small of my back keeping me tight against her. I'll take that as permission to proceed.

I push her tank and bra up around her neck, since I can't remove them with her cuffed, and I start licking and nipping her breasts. I take each nipple in turn, sucking roughly until she starts to moan, and then biting, and she arches into my mouth for more each time I pull away. My hands are everywhere; stroking the soft skin of her breasts, tracing her ribs and grasping the strong thighs through her pants. When she starts to thrust her pussy against me, I stand up abruptly, and her boot clad leg falls heavily to the ground as she tries to steady herself, hitting the lockers on the way. She opens her eyes, and they are that deep, dark color, and confused. Not afraid, not upset, just puzzled as to why I stopped.

I need more contact, and I guide her left leg up to lie nearly flat on the bench. Then I straddle her thigh, one knee on the bench, one foot on the floor, and my right hand against the lockers to steady myself. She figures out what I am doing, and brings her leg up until it hits my crotch, and I start to wonder about the wisdom of trying this. Sure, it looks easy in porn films, but I'm not sure I am this coordinated. Then she starts to move her thigh slowly back and forth, and once again all rational thought flies out the window. It is amazing how much I feel through my pants, her thigh, that friction. I don't know how she does it to me, but after several jerky movements, we settle into a rhythm and I am humping her leg like a dog. I start to fall into her and catch the bench above her head with my free hand. I suppose I had planned to use the hand to play with her breasts some more, or doing something else considerate, but that can wait. Right now, all I can do is focus on the heat building between my thighs. I'm close, closer, and when I start to come, I dig my nails into the bench, and pray to whatever is up there that I don't scream when I come. I won't know afterwards if I did or not; when I come all I see behind my closed eyes is a white light, warm and encompassing. A little death indeed.

For a few minutes, all I can feel is that light, that warmth, and all I can hear is our breaths against each other's throats. I realize as I open my eyes that I lost my balance and am not even half supporting myself anymore, the whole weight of me pressed against her long torso. She is still, beneath me, but when I start to rise, she whimpers and arches, trying to maintain the contact just a little longer. I am feeling rather tender towards her, for a moment, and I lean back over to kiss her gently, the kind of kisses we haven't shared yet. Not eager or all consuming, just soft and sweet. I'm starting to get into this new way of feeling about her when she turns her head away and now I am the one that is confused at she looks at me.

"Are you finished with me? Or are you going to leave me cuffed here all day?" There is a bit of a snarl in her voice, and it jolts me out of the mellow afterglow I was in. Whatever else has happened, this is still Sara, and this is still me, standing here pissed that she got under my skin again. I get down on my knees at her side, and undo her pants, quickly thrusting my hand into the blue panties, which are just as wet as I expected them to be. I slide two fingers easily into her pussy, and grab her chin to bring her face to face with me.

"I don't think you want me to be finished yet. Do you?" I hold her gaze until she drops her eyes away from me, and then I start moving my fingers inside of her. I can't get much leverage, it is an awkward position for both of us, but I find her clit with my palm and start grinding against it. She winces a little, and I back off just a bit, until she is shaking beneath me and her eyes roll closed. I doubt she even knows it is me anymore, and when she starts to get close, her thighs squeeze tightly around my hand, just about cutting off my circulation at the wrist. I'm watching her face for that point where she is beyond stopping, and while I am tempted to pull my hand out and leave her hanging, I instead bite the nipple closest to me, hard. She convulses, jerking against my mouth, and gives that same keening noise from the last time. Her thighs come up and completely trap my forearm, making it impossible to move my hand or withdraw. She turns her face away from me when she comes, and I can't see enough of it to deduce what she is feeling. I let go of the nipple between my teeth, only to gently lave it with my tongue, trying to erase my mark on her skin.

Sara didn't recover as quickly this time; I have time to remove the cuffs one handed before she releases my arm from between her thighs. I stand and turn away from her as I replace the hardware on my belt. I hear her utter something softly, but when I turn back, she has already pulled herself upright, and is tucking her shirt in. Her dark hair hangs like a veil over her face, and I can't see any part of her. I stand there for a couple moments wondering what to say, but nothing seems correct or even applicable. I wasn't going to call her; 'nice' didn't begin to cover what that was; and 'thanks' was too crass, even for me. Instead I walk out the door without looking back.


	6. Chapter 6

After I left Sara in the locker room, I couldn't get out of the building fast enough

After I left Sara in the locker room, I couldn't get out of the building fast enough. I turned over the interrogation to another detective and Stokes, begging off staying because I wasn't feeling well. They seemed to buy it, and wished me well. I must have looked like hell, and the truth was I did feel sick to my stomach. I rushed through a few reports, knowing I would probably have to redo them next shift, and headed out to the parking lot. It wasn't until I got to my SUV that I stopped running on autopilot and started to be conscious of my body again. My stomach was doing odd things and my knees and legs were sore from maintaining a position above her. I put my head back and closed my eyes, and just sat there for a while remembering the noises she made, the way her thigh felt between my legs, the light sheen on sweat on her chest while she struggled with my weight on top of her. I knew Sara was strong, not just physically, and if what had happened had not been consensual, she would have stopped me. But I still felt guilty. I couldn't stop myself from feeling that I had taken advantage of the situation.

When I got home, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the top of the fridge and poured a solid shot into a tumbler. It was a heavy glass from a set my mother had given me, I guess to encourage me not to drink alone, though it didn't seem to be stopping me. Something about the weight of the cut glass against my palm calmed me, and the first sips burned out the bitter taste that had risen in my mouth on the way home. I sat on the couch staring at the wane sunlight filtering through the blinds, bits of dust dancing in the light. I kept looking for a pattern in the dust eddies; if I could read them like tea leaves maybe I would see where Sara and I were heading. It struck me then that the phrase, 'Sara and I,' had flowed so smoothly, had seemed so natural. I was trying to see a future where there was none; Gil would be back in three weeks and that would be the end of this. I raised the glass to my lips to chase away these thoughts, but when I breathed in the fumes from the liquor, I smelled her scent too. It took me a moment to realize that I could still smell her on my fingers as they raised the whiskey to my mouth. The smell made me hungry for something else, and then the guilt hit again, making me nauseous. I went to kitchen to scrub her off my skin, dropping the tumbler carelessly into the sink where it broke beyond my ability to repair it.

When I showed up to work the next night, everyone asked me if I was feeling better. Apparently, I looked like crap, and I wasn't going to tell them I had gotten royally trashed by myself during the day and had barely pulled it together enough to get in. Let them think I was sick.

I couldn't tell now what I did over the next two days, and I could only hope most of the cases I worked on would plead out so I wouldn't have to testify in them. That and my compulsively detailed note taking at the end of the day would probably be enough. I just wandered through the halls, working for the weekend in a way I rarely do. The routine carried me through, and allowed my senses to focus on just one thing, keeping track of Sara. I was skittish about having to see her, every footfall that half matched her made my pulse race, and I swore I could pick out her voice from two rooms away. I didn't know what I would do if I had to face her, run or beg forgiveness being top of the list, neither very attractive options.

She finally caught up with me to ask about an old case, still open unfortunately. Some cases get caught in her teeth and she just won't let them go. I'm not sure what it was about this particular murder, but she hauled it out and went over it every few weeks since we had deemed it cold four months ago.

"Detective? About the Robertson case, did you ever talk to the wife's social circle? I know the husband mentioned the golfing group, but were there other organizations that maybe he just didn't mention?"

She was wearing jeans today, black of course, and a dark green button down shirt over a dark tank top. I remembered some details, but not all of the case. Dead wife, middle of nowhere, badly beaten, but with fading bruises and healed spiral fractures on both arms that didn't happen during the murder. Of course the multiple beatings this woman had suffered at the hands of her husband were probably killing her as well, just much slower. We hadn't been able to link him to the murder.

"Other than that? No. And none of the women knew of anything else she might have been involved in. They all say the same, lovely woman, a little skittish, a little withdrawn. The perfect image of an obedient battered wife."

I saw her flinch at the reference to the abuse, and as I glanced down at the file she had laid on the desk in front of me, I couldn't help staring at her wrists, wondering if the long sleeve blouse hid bruises from my cuffs. She caught me staring and tugged down her sleeves farther over her wrists, confirming my fears, though I had seen no discoloration. I stood abruptly, fighting another wave of nausea, and nearly knocked her off balance as I drew myself up and into her personal space.

"Are you OK? I forgot you were not feeling well. I'll come back next week with this."

That she still could be the consummate professional and even express concern over me was too much. I watched her walk away, and even as I was kicking myself for not doing my job, I was watching her ass in those jeans that were almost too tight for propriety's sake. I sat back down and buried my head in my hands until my commander came by and took pity on me, sending me home. At least I had two and a half days off to get my head on straight, but when it comes to Sara, I'm not sure which way I should be facing.

The next night, I am once again curled up on my couch with a tumbler of liquor, trying to stop my mind from working and just leave me alone. It didn't seem to be slowing it down any, and I reach for the bottle on the end table next to me. I have given up the pretense that I'm not trying to get smashed and forget. I had brought the bottle with me from the kitchen since no one could see and it saves me getting up regularly to refill my glass. I had just reached a point where I am buzzed enough to not think and had lightly dozed off when I am jolted awake by someone pounding on my door. Getting up from the couch groggily, I stumble around my apartment, stashing the bottle out of sight in the kitchen.

"Just a minute," even I know my voice is raw sounding, and I can feel anger rising in me that someone would dare disturb me when all I want is to be left alone and drunk.

I am about to open the door when my training kicks in and I move to check through the peephole at the annoyance on the other side. My hand freezes on the handle as I look at Sara distorted through the curved glass. She is staring back down the hallway towards the elevator, and I study her profile as she absently tucks her hair behind her ear. She looks lovely, as always, in jeans and a dark blue button down shirt. More casual than I see her at the office, less make up, hair not as perfectly done. I am still debating whether to let her in at all, when she turns back to face the doorway and raises one eyebrow at the peephole.

"So, are you going to let me in or not?" She smirks at me, knowing I am staring at her, though she can't see me. I'm tempted to say no, I'm not, but she is fixing a look of such confidence at, well, at the door really since I am not visible, that I turn the handle and release the deadbolt before stepping back to let her come through if she chooses.

She takes a few seconds longer to enter the apartment than I thought it should take, and in those few seconds I hope that she has changed her mind and left. I also fear the same thing, and when she comes through the door, I sigh in disappointment and relief. Maybe a little more relief than the other.

We are standing several paces apart as she leans against the closed door, looking around the place and not at me. She seems to be searching for something, though she's been here before, and when she spots the two bar stools tucked under the edge of the high counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, she moves towards them. I just stand in the middle of the room, wrapping my arms tightly around my torso, shivering slightly and trying not to say anything. I don't trust my voice, or my thoughts, to not betray me now. She runs her hands over the backs of the stools, tugging on each metal slat, giving each chair a shake before moving to stand behind one. She finally looks up at me, a ghost of a smile on her face as she motions for me to have a seat on the stool, waiting patiently as I battle the demons in my head. Part of me is afraid what will happen, what I will do if I am too close to her again. Then the part that yearns to be so close wins out and propels me across the room to sit, turning my back on her for a moment, until she comes around to stand in front of me.

As she walks around me, I smell jasmine again, her shampoo I think, and that slightly earthy tone underneath that I am beginning to recognize as just her. I hear something clinking, metal on metal, as she moves, and I figure it is her belt as she stands comfortably in font of me, arms at her side, open posture. It is all I can do to keep my arms folded in my lap; I just want to curl into myself and hide. But I play cool, trying to match her relaxed attitude. She just stands there studying me for a couple of minutes, and just as I feel I am about to melt from the scrutiny, she reaches behind her back and pulls a pair of LVPD regulation handcuffs off her belt. I swallow hard as she lets the cuffs dangle from her hand, a question in her eyes. I stare from the metal swaying in the air to her face and back again. I nod, yes, you may, as I drop my gaze to my lap. I start to raise my hands, wrists upturned towards her, realizing after a moment that she has moved behind me again. Of course, the metal slots on the stool will secure me. I start to panic a little at the thought of being that defenseless, but I allow her to draw my arms behind me with the most gentle of touches, just trailing her fingers along my biceps and down to my wrists. I tense as I hear her run the chain around one of the slats and she waits until I relax to put the cuffs on. As she double locks them and checks the fit, I relax more. There is something calming about not being able to make any moves, any decisions. I trust her.

I hear her move behind me, missing already the feel of her fingertips grazing my skin, expecting to find her in front of me again, puzzled that she is not. I look over my shoulder struggling to see her, and catch her in my periphery vision as she moves into the kitchen. She spots the bottle I had placed out of sight of the door, picking it up and reading the label, and I feel a defense start to well up, but stop when she simply sets it back down and continues searching for something. I can't quite face her because of my position on the stool, and am afraid to try to turn the stool without my hands to balance me. I rack my brain to remember if I have anything else in there I will feel the need to explain, but can't think of anything. She apparently finds what she is looking for, pouring water over the generic tea bags I keep on hand for guests. She moves to the microwave directly behind where I am standing, effectively removing her from my line of sight. I turn around, giving up on watching her and listen to the microwave hum.

I can't figure out what she is doing to me. Maybe I haven't been around enough, but I'm pretty sure cuffing a woman to a chair and then stopping to make a cup of tea is not the way foreplay usually goes. At this point I don't know which way is up, and it is driving me to distraction that she is calmly leaving me hanging. I jump when the timer beeps, and I see her hand set the mug on the counter next to the second stool before she comes around behind me. She grasps the stool by the seat and starts to lift it to turn me towards its mate. When I am settled again she sits down opposite me, drawing the mug towards her, warming her hands as she studies me. It is infuriating to be so close, mere feet, and I can do nothing to bridge the distance, shackled as I am.

I figure I should wait her out; she came to me, this is her show. But after several minutes, I'm so close to begging her to do something, anything. She seems so composed, and I am anything but. Finally she moves to put her mug back on the counter, drawing herself up to face me. I don't know what she sees in my face, but it seems to answer some internal question, and she nods to herself before she starts speaking.

" So I figured we should talk about …this," Sara gestures to the space between us. "I have a few questions, and I figured this is the easiest way to make sure you stayed. I expect you to be honest." I look up when she pauses, and nod my compliance before dropping my gaze back to her shoes.

"Good. So let's start at the beginning. The day Grissom left, why did you invite me out to breakfast?" I squirm in my seat, trying to think up a reasonable answer that sounded somewhat plausible. Coming up blank, I decide on the truth, but not the whole truth if I can help it. If I even know what that is anymore.

" I knew about the two of you and I had thought to use his absence to make you feel insecure about your relationship with him. Make you doubt his commitment to you." I can't look at her, and I know the follow-up question that is coming.

"Why?"

"Well, if he is willing to leave you for a month, what makes you think he won't take off for good…"

"Don't do that," she cuts me off, and I can hear anger in her voice. "Don't evade the question. You know what I am asking. Just tell me the truth. Please." Her voice fades a little on the last word, a little bit gentler. I meet her eyes then, and swallow back the lump in my throat. Even after all of this, there is compassion in her face and I can't handle that. I stare over her shoulder and know I can't get out of this interrogation. I can simply throw myself on her mercy and pray for leniency.

"I still cared for Gil. I thought if I could make you question your relationship with him, you might end it. Then maybe I would have a chance with him again."

"You said 'cared,' past tense. Do you not still feel that way?" I am surprised at her question; I didn't realize I had said it, nor until that moment how true it is.

"No," I whisper hoarsely, "I don't think I do." I can feel a couple of tears run down my cheek, and she stares at her own hands folded over her knee, giving me a moment to recoup privately. Before she can begin again, I start talking and can't seem to stop.

"I took you home that day because I wanted you. It wasn't about Grissom, and it wasn't just about the physical desire. I don't know if I felt like this before or if it is new, but I think part of my problem with knowing the two of you were together must have been that I was jealous of both of you. You and I have been so adversarial; I just never stopped to examine what else lay under that. And now when I wake up wet and wanting it is because of dreams of you. What I had with Gil was never as intense, or as satisfying as the times I have been with you." She looks up surprised at the mention of my relationship with Gil; I had assumed she knew what happened between us. One more thing I could feel guilty about with regards to Sara. I twist my wrists in the cuffs, knowing it will bruise, needing the punishment. Needing the slight pain to force myself to continue.

"I still don't know what I want with you, from you. I'm not a romantic; I never cared for flowers and long walks. But I'm pretty sure I screwed up any chance of it after what I did to you in the locker room." The tears are running steadily down my face and I can't look at her. "I'm sorry for what I did. I don't know what got into me. I was just so aroused by being near you, and so pissed off by what you said. You get under my skin time and again, and I never see it coming. It was my fault. I'm so sorry I hurt you." I'm crying without reservations now, my head bowed and after a couple minutes, I see her start to unbutton the cuffs of her shirt. I shut my eyes tight, unable to face what I had done, until I feel her fingers under my chin. I didn't even realize she was out of her chair until she is lifting my face to look at her.

"Open your eyes," she commands as I squeeze them tighter. "Just open them. Whatever you are imagining is probably worse than the truth," she sighs gently, her breath rolling over the top of my head. She's right, I know, but it is so hard to see. She strokes the back of my head gently, fingers tangling in my hair as she waits. It is way too comforting, and it gives me strength.

When I open my eyes, I find myself looking into brown eyes and I steady myself in her gaze before nodding once. The fingers tangled in my hair leave, and I miss their warmth immediately. I look down at the upturned wrists presented to me. There is the blue and green bruises circling each wrist, though they are less visible along the top of her forearm. They are nothing more than I see every day, and they are already starting to fade. Except this time I did this, to someone I think I could care about. The vision swims beneath the tears and I can't look anymore.

"I don't know if you will believe me, but you didn't do anything wrong. Nothing you did was unwanted, though a little surprising," her voice is farther off, she must have sat back down. It is steady and calm, if a little detached. "You didn't do anything I didn't enjoy, though I'm not sure I would have known how to ask for what I wanted. You didn't hurt me, Sofia." I hear her sigh again, but this time from behind me. I don't know how she moved so quickly, and I jump at the touch of her hands on mine as she releases me from the handcuffs. I draw my arms around to the front, idly rubbing my wrists after their confinement, and look up to see her standing a few paces away. I stand and start to move towards her, but she holds up her hands, stopping me cold.

"I don't know what to make of this, all of this. I need to leave now. I'm sorry." She is already backing to the door and I can't make out the expression on her face. Fear? Revulsion? I only know I am lost as she leaves and I don't know if I can handle being alone.


	7. Chapter 7

After Sara left, I went through my usual weekend routine; laundry, housecleaning, obligatory call to my mother

After Sara left, I went through my usual weekend routine: laundry, housecleaning, and obligatory call to my mother. I put the bottle of whiskey back in the cupboard, though, and left it there for the rest of the week. Even with my apartment as clean as it had ever been, I still had too much time on my hands before I went back to work. I spent a lot of time on the couch pretending to watch TV or reading, but I never seemed to get more than a few pages into a book before my thoughts would start to wander.

I wondered where she was, what she was doing. Imagined her going through her daily routines, and if my mind lingered overly long on her bathing and changing her clothes, well, who would know? Some fantasies that I previously had only allowed my subconscious to entertain became full-fledged daydreams. Sara and I at a crime scene, breaking every protocol as we screwed against the wall of some alley behind the police tape. Sara and I in an interrogation room, me spread eagle, naked on the table, her mouth doing what I imagine would be amazing things to me, while people walked by unaware of what was happening on the other side of the window. A couple of these daydreams ended with me panting and sweaty after jerking off on the couch.

I wondered about Gil as well. I can't imagine she told him about this, about us, but I still imagined the way he would look at me, disappointed, if he ever did find out. I tried to bring up the old daydreams I had of him and me, of all the fucking I wish we had done rather than the few satisfactory but passionless encounters we did have. But now it seemed a hollow fantasy, nothing more intriguing than a cheap romance novel.

I keep coming back to how well she knows me, how well she sees me. When I didn't even realize myself how much my feelings had shifted, she saw through my bullshit. I can't help imagining what it would be like to have a lover perceptive enough to call me on my lies and inadequacies. It is not something I've ever found in a relationship; not that I hold out much hope for my relationship with Sara. Even without counting the circumstances of our whatever, not counting Gil, I don't think she sees me that way. But there is still a little bit of hope I try not to feel, but can't quite squash.

The next couple of weeks passed quickly for me; same old shit, murder, robbery, rape. Not that I wish horrible things on anyone, but maxing out my overtime working cases kept me occupied, distracted. The powers that be decided to cut me some slack and didn't place Sara and me on the same cases. I'm not sure I could have handled the proximity, not while retaining my dignity. When we bumped into each other in the halls, it was polite, professional. I kept hoping we would run into each other somewhere quiet, private, so I could say everything that I was feeling. That I thought maybe there was something here, that I didn't want to hurt her, or Gil, but if she wanted something more, I wanted to try. Everything essentially that I had tried to say the other night and screwed up so royally.

In the back of my head I kept a running countdown: days until Gil returned. I knew if I were to say anything, it would have to be before he returned. It just wouldn't be fair to them otherwise. Not that any of this was fair to me. I start to really connect with someone, who is taken, and more or less straight, and whose boyfriend is returning in seven days. I'm totally fucked over on this one.

The countdown was at four days when Sara came into the common office I share with a half dozen other detectives. I knew she came in, I swear I can feel her presence sometimes. I assumed she was just checking in with one of the guys on a case and didn't bother looking up, until her boots came into my line of sight as I pretended to work on a report. She sank into the utilitarian chair opposite my desk uninvited, and I scrawled a few more lines on the papers in front of me while she waited; just trying to buy a little time to get my game face on.

When I looked up, all I saw was her eyes. She has the most beautiful eyes, deep brown and so expressive. This time, however, I couldn't read what was in them, but I knew it was important, something I should know but didn't. I stared at her for so long, struggling to understand what she was trying to tell me. We stayed like that for a minute or ten, I don't know, and I finally gave up and shook my head, no, I'm sorry, I don't understand. I felt like an idiot as I dropped my gaze to the chipped metal surface of my desk. I felt I had failed some test. Fortunately, Sara took pity on my ignorance.

"I was wondering what you are doing this weekend? You have Friday and Saturday off, right?" I nodded mutely, unsure where she was leading and not wanting to let the least bit of hope in. I was gazing into her eyes again, but I still couldn't read her intentions.

"Do you want to get a beer or dinner on Friday evening, then?" I nodded slowly, not trusting my voice or myself until Sara smirked and raised an eyebrow at me.

"Which would you like, dinner, or just drinks? And what time shall I pick you up?"

"Drinks sounds good. Say 8-ish?" I waved my hand in the general way of saying more or less, around then, and she watched my fingers until I drew then into my lap self-consciously.

"Great, I'll see you then."

I spent most of Friday cleaning my apartment and obsessing about what to wear. I felt like such a cliché. Fixating on clothes and making my place look inviting and all. Most of the time, I let the men I date see me exactly as I am, a cop whose life revolves around the job and getting the bad guys. Let them see exactly what they are getting into; the apartment where I get started on domestic projects I never finish because I always seem to get called in, the pager and cell phone prominently displayed on the coffee table. Once a man my friend had set me up with actually hung in there for four dates, only to get freaked out by a blood stained blouse hanging off the side of my hamper. I'm not sure he actually stuck around long enough for me to explain that it wasn't my blood, it belonged to some perp who decided to run instead of waiting politely to be arrested. I'm not sure the explanation would have been any better.

But with Sara coming, I wanted her to see who else I could be. She knew enough about the job to understand what it does to the rest of my life. I'm sure it wrecked the same havoc on hers. Though maybe it doesn't break her down anymore, with Grissom around. I wanted her to see that I could be normal, for want of a better word. That I could be the lover I think she wants. If she wants me.

Hell, I even dug out the crystal vase from the back of the cupboard, another present from my mother, and bought flowers to put in it. By 7:30 I was pacing around an apartment that was too clean, too organized, and I couldn't seem to settle down and wait. At 7:50, there was a knock on the door. I looked through the peephole to see Sara looking rather nervous. It was really cute. I let her in without a word, and when she shrugged off the black leather jacket into my waiting hands, I gasped. She was wearing tight black pants, and as I drew the jacket away from her, I could see every movement her ass made. The top was also black, but with some shimmer to it. It was sleeveless, and cut a little low in the back, but when she turned around I saw the neckline plunged much lower, and the curve of her breasts was just visible above the hem.

I was still openly staring at her chest, when I realized Sara was saying my name in an amused tone. I looked up to her face, blushing as she smirked at me and repeated herself.

"I was asking if you are ready to go? My eyes are up here, by the way," she said gesturing to her face, "but of course you know that." She teased me gently, and for once it didn't make me want to tear her a new one. That's a new feeling.

"I know where your eyes are, but you didn't wear that shirt so I would look at your face. Did you?" My voice dropped in volume and pitch on the last few words, and I stepped into her personal space, well inside it, until we were so close if we inhaled at the same time our torsos would rub together. I skimmed my right hand up the front of her shirt, stopping just short of her breasts, watching her eyes darken and pupils dilate. Something seemed to shift in her, and when I drew my hand back down her shirt and then pulled it away completely, her body leaned towards me, tried to follow my touch for a moment before she remembered herself.

"So, where are you taking me for drinks?" I asked her in a normal voice as I stepped back. I was amazed at my own confidence, amazed that I had control of myself even as the scent of her lingered in my nose and my fingers itched to touch her again. She swayed on her feet, and then came towards me so quickly, I didn't even realize she had moved until her hand twisted in the short hairs at the back of neck and the other grabbed my hip to steady me, which I suddenly needed very much.

"I don't feel like going out much anymore," she breathed against my ear. "Let's just stay in." I felt her words against my lips before she drew me into an incredible kiss, forcing her tongue between my teeth, not that I was objecting. Her hand gently stroked my hip, providing a calming counterbalance to the heat we were generating. We kissed like that for several minutes until the intensity of it, or the lack of oxygen, made my head start to swim. When I drew back, I realized my hands had found her hips of their own accord, and I tightened my grip to keep her close. She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door leading off the living room and turned back to face me.

"Aren't you going to give me a tour? I've never seen the rest of your apartment."

"There isn't much to see. The only other room here is my bedroom. Oh." So I am a little bit dense when I am around her. Given the way she had just kissed me and the fact that most of the blood in my body seemed to be heading south, I think I'm allowed a few "d'oh" moments. She turned, grasping my hand as she led me into my own bedroom. She stopped at the doorway for a moment, lightly touching the petals of the roses I had put on the end table there. I caught a glimpse of her smile in profile, and felt ridiculously happy that something I had done had elicited a moment of such unguarded pleasure from her. Usually she seems so tightly wound around me, so cautious and controlled. I wanted to see so much more of those moments.

She opened the door and drew me in, not letting go of my hand as she looked around the room. My bedroom has slightly more personality than the rest of the place, but not by much. The dresser and end tables were hand me downs from my relatives when I got my first place, useful, but plain and well used. As a detective, I probably could have afforded better things, but I never found the time to shop for them. There were framed photos on the dresser, but she didn't examine them. She moved to the only unique decoration in the room, an old fashioned grandfather clock, or rather the wall-mounted version of one. She checked the time against the satellite linked accuracy of her cell phone and nodded.

"How much time does it lose?" She asked, apropos of nothing that had just happened in the living room and that I had hoped would continue in here.

"About two minutes a month. I bought it in some no name antique store a few years ago. It was in bad shape, and I had the mechanisms repaired, though not refinished."

"Why?" she turned and looked at me as if this was the most important question in the world, as if the answer might tell her everything she needed to know about me. "It seems incongruous. I can't think of anything less expected in your bedroom than a grandfather clock. Well, excepting me, of course." I smiled and moved to stand next to her facing the clock, opening the glass cover to still the pendulum.

"My grandmother had one when I was young. When we would go visit her, no matter how often we were there or for how long, I would have trouble falling asleep in her house. During the summer, all of my cousins would be there and we would pull sleeping bags onto the back porch to try to beat the heat. I would get restless and wander the first floor of the house. Sometimes, I would run into my grandma sitting in the dining room in the dark, drinking an old-fashioned and dangling a half forgotten cigarette between her fingers, watching the pendulum swing back and forth. She would pull me into her lap and tell me stories about her life and her family. All the plans she had when she was young that had fallen apart. I didn't understand at the time her sorrow, or her disappointment. I just remember feeling safe in her arms as I listened to her heartbeat echo the ticking of the clock." Suddenly I felt foolish; I had not meant to share this. I started to turn away from Sara, when I felt her wrap both arms around my waist and draw me back against her. I could feel her breath against my throat as she held me tightly, her chin tucked against my collarbone, and arched my neck, leaving my throat open to her. Her lips moved so gently against my skin, just a whisper or perhaps a promise of something more. Then I felt her hands on my shoulders, turning me around without letting go of me.

"Show me how to start it," she said, reaching over my shoulder to the clock. I thought for a moment she was teasing me or setting me up, but her face was so genuine, I couldn't help but trust her. I explained how to set the pendulum swinging as I buried my face into the hollow of her neck, my lips resting on her pulse point. I moved my hands over her hips and back to caress her bottom, and felt her pulse speed up under my mouth. I giggled softly against her skin before tilting my head to meet her questioning gaze.

"Nothing. It is nothing," I answered what she hadn't asked and drew her to me until we were flush against each other. "I just want you so much." I kissed her then, not ashamed of admitting that I wanted this. She smiled slightly before our lips met, and I didn't have time to wonder what that look meant before I was completely involved in this kiss, in her hands, and her body.

After a few minutes, I felt her start to move forward, and I stumbled backwards as she steered us to the bed. I managed to trip over my own feet when we got close to the bed, and fell backwards onto the comforter, pulling her down on top of me. I think we were both shocked at the abrupt change of position, and after checking for injuries we started giggling. She rolled off of me, but stayed close enough at my side that I could feel her chest rising and falling against my arm as she breathed. I turned my head to look at her and drew the back of my hand down her cheek, red from laughter, and then turned it to rest on the soft skin exposed by the low cut blouse.

"I certainly came here to seduce you, but I hadn't planned on literally throwing myself at you." I felt my heart start to race and some of my hope must have shown on my face because Sara quickly clarified her statement. "I've been thinking about this, about us, and I need to tell you that I plan to stay with Gil. But I want to be with you tonight." I turned to face away from her, and she drew me back until we were so close I could look nowhere other than her eyes. "I know that's selfish, and unfair to you. But I want just one night with you where I don't feel like we're battling each other. The other two times were great, but I want something different, and I want this night to be what I remember most vividly. Please?"

I was disappointed, certainly, but I think I understood her point. The other two times we fucked, and that was indeed the correct word for our actions, had been about proving something to the other. I know it had been for me. This, tonight, could be different, and then it would be over. But at least I would have her for now. And that would have to be enough.

I moved to kiss her gently, exploring. Touching everything, memorizing. When I first saw her completely nude, I was astounded by her beauty, and moved by her scars. I kissed everything. What happened that night was wonderful, and mine, only mine, to hold in memory.

When I woke up the next morning, I was tangled in the sheets, alone, though I remember wrapping myself around Sara before I fell asleep. I glanced around the bedroom, already knowing she was gone. Next to the clock on the nightstand was the vase of peach roses from the living room, and with it a hastily scrawled note.

'I took one. Thank you. Forgive me.'


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note:

The last three days of Gil's sabbatical passed far too quickly for my tastes. I knew better than to try to contact Sara, but I wanted to so badly. I found myself fingering the peach colored roses every time I walked past them in my bedroom, their silky softness reminding me of Sara. I was turning into such a girl. And I knew there was no chance of getting this woman. It was pathetic, but I was glad she had taken one of the roses, a memento. I actually thought about pressing the rest of the bunch when they started to whither as a keepsake, but took them out and tossed them in the apartment dumpster so I wouldn't be tempted with such sentimental crap. Pathetic.

I knew when Gil's plane got in; I wasn't prying, really, I just wanted to avoid him. It seemed like so much longer than four weeks that he had been gone. While I was still me, I felt I had changed in some important way. I thought he would see right through me, see this change, and while I doubt he would bother to inquire, I didn't want him trying to figure me out. Especially since I haven't entirely worked out for myself what has changed.

That's a lie; I fell for Sara. That's what changed.

So I wasn't around when he got back to the lab, coming straight from the airport, of course. But Archie told me about watching Grissom run into Sara in the hallway. People never seem to get that it is all glass walled; people can see you from two labs away. Archie said they were talking and Sara kept backing away and Grissom kept advancing on her. I tried to ask nonchalantly what they had said, but Archie was too far away to hear. But he did try to describe the look on her face when she smiled at him. He knew it meant something, even if he was too smitten by her to read between the lines. I wonder if I ever saw that smile.

By the time my shift was over, I was so on edge from avoiding them both, that I snapped at a lab tech who got in my way on the way through the lobby. I didn't even realize how rude I had been until I got to my car. Shit, I'll apologize tomorrow. I just needed to get home before I lost it.

I spent most of the day puttering around my apartment, ordered greasy takeout, and watched reruns of old programs on Spike that I generally don't admit to liking. That's always a problem with working graveyard, all of my friends keep banking hours and I had no one to call and bully into taking me out to get trashed and then drive me home at two in the afternoon so I could sleep it off before shift.

I held out on disturbing any friends at work until almost three, which I thought was impressive. Then I found myself calling Jean and telling her all about Sara and Grissom and what an ass I had made of myself. She was understandably surprised since the last time I had mentioned Gil and Sara, it had been when I was still obsessed with him, not her. But she was sympathetic and really great, and I found myself crying on her shoulder via cell phone for a while. She was offering to take me to dinner and talk more, and I accepted, though I think she probably would have shown up even if I hadn't.

Jean came by my place to pick me up, and we went to an early dinner, which turned into a long meal, and then drinks at her place, and me calling in sick to work. We stayed up half the night talking about our lousy love lives and everything else, and by the time we crashed, I was so exhausted it didn't even phase me that she invited me to share her bed rather than take the couch. I didn't think twice about wrapping my arms around her as she turned into me in her sleep. And if her hair didn't smell like jasmine, it was something almost as enticing. I drifted off with the smell of Jean in my nose, and if I dreamed of Sara I didn't remember upon waking.

Jean and I are, I don't know, something. It is not the same as what I had with Sara, and Jean knows it as well. She keeps telling me she's not gay, but then neither am I. And I am still on the rebound. It was possibly the most intense relationship of my life, and it lasted all of four weeks. Being with Jean helps pass the time, which may not be fair to her, but she seems to accept it. When she curls against my back at night, it is like she shelters me from the dreams. The 'Sara Dreams,' as I call them. The 'Amazingly-hot-and-acrobatic-sex Dreams,' would also be appropriate. But after a few weeks she starts to appear less frequently in my dreams. And after a few more weeks, I don't need my Jean-Shield to keep them away. Though I still burrow into the safe space between her arms each night, just in case.

I switched to days for a while, claiming near burnout on the graveyard. The reality was I just couldn't face the two of them. OK, really, I just couldn't deal with her all the time. It was too much to have her treat me the same as she treats all of her colleagues. Her professional manner seemed to alternately make me want to throw her against the nearest wall and kiss her stupid or curl up and cry. Days is a little more high profile and yet less challenging in many regards. It is something about the crazies just coming out to howl at the moon, I guess. And as time went by, I stopped listening for her footfall and getting goosebumps when we ran into each other around.

Recently we were assigned to work a case together in one of those weird trades the supervisors sometimes make between shifts. We spent two days going over the minutia of this murdered woman's life, making very little progress. It was going to be another one of those cases that haunts Sara, I could tell. I finally called the end of the shift, two hours after I thought we would be home, and helped her round up the loose paperwork from the table. I was carrying the box, and so she hit the light switch, and I looked up in the dim light to catch her reflection in the glass wall. I realized then that this must have been the smile Archie was talking about; it transformed not just her, but the space around her, the people as well. A more pure expression of love I have never seen before, and for a moment, my hope leapt up. I could feel my heart pounding, and I moved towards her without a thought. Until she moved through the door towards Grissom waiting on the other side of the glass, her reflection morphing as she left, until it disappeared completely.


End file.
